love love or whatever, take a number
by andawaywego
Summary: "It's possible that it just came down to you not knowing how to compromise all of your progress over the years for something that Rachel may or may not be really feeling." Faberry. Sequel to "the one with the friends reference".


**a/n:**

this is set like a month after "the one with the friends reference" and follows Quinn, basically catches you up on her side of things.

some people might not like how she reacted to Rachel's declaration of love, but, let's face it, these two are kinda dumb and are pretty much the hosts of their own angst variety show.

i wanted to make it believable—how she reacted—especially since so much time has passed.

hopefully you don't hate the direction i took.

sorry about any mistakes. as i've said before, my version of Microsoft is an asshole.

good luck. this thing is a beast—much larger than i intended.

…

 _love love or whatever, take a number_

..

When Santana tells you in the airport on the first day of Fall Break that she'll be dragging not only you, but Rachel, on a camping trip with her and Brittany the next morning, you're more than a little put-out.

And not just because Sue Sylvester's Annual Wilderness Retreats—in which you were abandoned in the woods at night miles outside of Lima with no gear or compass and told nothing more than, "Town's that way. I'd hurry if I were you; it's bear season,"—but because things between you and Rachel are more than a little awkward these days.

In fact, you'd tell her, "Hell no," on principle, but she's quick to play the, "It's to make up for you missing my wedding, bitch," card, so, really, your hands are tied.

But Rachel's aren't and she sits up straighter in her seat beside you, pressing her carry-on into her lap and saying, "Why do I have to go? I was at your wedding, remember? I even got Brittany that last-minute lizard."

You give her a weird look, but she's glaring at Santana and not looking at you, so it doesn't really matter.

 _Last-minute lizard?_

"Whatever, Berry. Britts wants you there—"

Brittany, who is playing a game that makes a cash register sound faintly every so often, waves at Rachel without looking away from her Nintendo DS.

"—so you're gonna be there. Capisce?"

You can't help but wonder if she planned this—if it's why she insisted on all four of you splurging to get the group rate on flights home for the long weekend you and Rachel have off of school.

It hadn't made much sense at the time, what with Thanksgiving break right around the corner, but she'd made some sort of compelling argument—or you'd just _really_ wanted her to shut up—and now here you are.

That would be so like her; getting what she wants under the guise of something completely different.

Rachel looks like she still wants to argue, but she slumps back in her seat when you say, "Fine, okay. We'll go."

"As if you had a choice," Santana grumbles, leaning over a bit so that she's half-slumped against her wife.

Rachel doesn't look at you, but you don't expect her to.

.

Santana picks you up bright and early the next morning, honking the horn of her dad's mint-green truck when she pulls into your driveway.

Your mother, who is awake, but barely, in her bathrobe and slippers kisses your cheek as you shift your backpack around on your shoulders. "You have the air mattress, right?" she asks, somehow managing to give you a worried look beyond the exhaustion.

"Yeah," you say. "Of course."

She nods. "Alright. Be safe, dear. Text me when you get there, okay?"

"Will do."

You're surprised she's being so reasonable today, when, after she'd picked you up at the airport last night and you'd told her of Santana's plans, she'd been more than a little upset.

"I only get you for a week as it is," she'd said on the drive home. "Why now?"

You'd shrugged. "I missed their wedding, Mom, or I wouldn't go."

She'd seemed to understand that, but was still grumbling about it under her breath when you went to bed a few hours later.

"Go easy on Rachel, alright?"

You're halfway out the door when she says it, with your final goodbye already on the tip of your tongue.

With your hand on the doorknob, you freeze and glance back at her, frowning. "Yeah," you mumble. "I will."

As if you've been particularly harsh to her these past weeks.

Sure, things have been awkward since you'd replied to her, "I love you, too," with, "I really… _can't,_ Rachel," but there's nothing you can really do about that shy of cutting her out of your life completely.

But it's Rachel and she'd promised not that long before her particularly random declaration that she wants you in her life.

She certainly hasn't backed down yet.

Still, you sort of regret telling your mother about it—that night after you broke up with Puck just a month after getting back together with him, when you'd broken down and told her about your feelings for the girl in the middle of _An Affair to Remember_ and a pint of Häagan Dazs.

To your surprise, she'd been a champ about it, though maybe it's rude to say you were surprised that she hadn't made you pack your bags and leave like the last time you screwed up the family name.

She's certainly not your father.

She'd just held you and wiped away your smeared mascara with a tissue, cooing, "It'll be okay," over and over in your ear like a good mother should.

When, you'd told her about this recent development, she'd been confused about your reaction.

"I thought you were in love with her," she'd said on the phone just an hour or two after Rachel had left your doorstep to get back on a train to New York.

"I was," you'd said. "I _am_ , but…"

"'But' what?" she'd asked and, the funny thing was, you hadn't really known how to put it in words.

It's possible that it just came down to you not knowing how to compromise all of your progress over the years for something that Rachel may or may not be really feeling.

It's hard to put yourself on the line once, sure, go all in.

But the fourth, fifth, or eleventh time?

Way harder.

But your mother is telling you to "go easy" on her, as if you've been rude.

As if you'd dug her heart from her chest and stomped on it like she'd done with you more than once.

As if she hadn't been the one to say, "Well…I…I'm not going to lose you again. So…if…I will respect your… _opinion_."

Your mother kisses your cheek again. "I'm just saying, sweetie," she murmurs and you shrug so that your backpack goes higher onto your shoulder.

Santana honks the horn again—longer this time.

"I know," you say and, with another hug, you're out the door.

Rachel is half-asleep in the backseat and Brittany turns to grin at you when you climb in.

"This is going to be _so much fun_ ," she says far too loudly for seven in the morning.

You can't help it—you glance over at Rachel, slumped against the window with Brittany's penguin Pillow Pet under her head.

"Something like that," you say and Santana is already backing out of the driveway.

.

You hadn't meant to hurt her when she came back—hadn't really been thinking _at all_ when you'd told her that you were never friends.

Your mind had been on moving and you were tired and still on edge from her showing up with the others.

It wasn't as if you'd really had time to prepare yourself to be around her like you've been able to the past few years.

You were just telling the truth, though, really.

Because you were always pining after her or knocking her down or some terrible combination of the two.

You were far to busy hiding from yourself to be her friend in high school.

And then, in college, you'd finally felt stable, able to maybe try again, but were constantly rebuffed by her whenever you'd offer to use the tickets you'd paid an arm and a leg for.

Unsurprisingly, you'd taken it as a sign and, after that, you just stopped trying, thinking that, if you and Rachel were meant to be, it wouldn't be so difficult.

You'd buried yourself in meaningless relationships with people you could hide from, boys who were so unlike Rachel in that they never cared enough to break down your walls.

Professor Savage was a mistake—one that actually didn't last much longer than two dates, which were really just meet-ups in the Starbucks on campus to discuss things that students shouldn't really talk about with their professors.

You'd called it off the night he'd practically shoved his tongue down your throat on the sidewalk outside the store—the same night he'd told you about his wife.

The only reason you'd played it up with Santana was because you were afraid of her judgmental looks and the way she always seemed to know what you were thinking in high school.

And then Santana ended up being a mistake you can't actually bring yourself to regret, because you'd both been so drunk and sad that neither of you cared much when she called you, "Brittany," and you'd called her, "Rachel."

She hadn't been particularly surprised—if the look on her face when you'd said the other woman's name was anything to go by—and she'd known enough to not mention it in the morning or after that, for that matter.

Biff wasn't much better.

Dating Biff McIntosh is what happens when you try to bury yourself in the exact opposite of the person you really want.

Dating Puck wasn't much different, though it ended much sooner and Puck had certainly seemed less surprised than Biff had.

After him, you'd spent your time just trying to focus on getting over Rachel.

You dug your heels into your classes and moving on and it looked like, maybe, you were getting somewhere when you were able to go a few days without thinking about her.

Until she called you out of the blue and asked you to come back to Lima to save the glee club.

You'd stayed as briefly as you could manage before disappearing back to New Haven and drowning yourself in school, once more.

But any progress you might have been making was absolutely shattered the day you went to meet Santana, Brittany, Kurt, and Blaine outside your old apartment building only to find her mixed into their group.

You were angry, of course.

Hurt.

You hadn't really meant to be so harsh.

But you also hadn't expected her to take it like she did—to actually try.

You were so surprised—so taken aback by her effort—that you forgot to try and close her out again.

You forgot to pretend to be panicked when she mentioned, offhandedly in the park, that she knew about your feelings for her.

It wasn't as if you ever expected her to return them.

Or think she did.

 _Does_ , maybe.

But you'd sworn to yourself that first weekend she'd come to visit you, when you'd seen the way she'd looked in your sweater in the harsh glow of the TV, that you wouldn't let yourself backtrack.

Not when you were doing so well.

It was a hard promise to keep, especially when she'd said those words you'd longed to hear for almost seven years.

It was hard to turn her down for your own benefit.

Especially when, just seconds after she'd turned to go, you realized that you were probably making a big mistake.

.

When you're nearly there, Santana pulls into a pet store and you're more than a little confused.

It's only a few hours of driving to Sauder Village and she'd been rather adamant about not stopping _for anything_ so that you could get there in time.

But now you're in the bird food aisle of the pet store watching her compare bird seed with her wife.

You lean back against one of the shelves beside Rachel, who is pretending to be fascinated by the back label of a bird toy.

At the end of the aisle, Brittany grabs bag of squirrel food and holds it up to the bag of duck feed Santana is carrying, saying something that you can't hear.

"Wait, I'm confused," Rachel says softly, having looked up from the toy to look at your companions. "Is she planning on feeding ducks or squirrels?"

You smile at her and say, "Probably some disastrous combination of both."

Rachel grins at you and leans in, almost like she's going to bump you with her shoulder but stops herself short.

"Hey, losers."

When you look up, Santana is coming over, arms filled to the brim with various bags of food.

"We're ready to go whenever you're done flirting."

Brittany frowns at her and, you think, nudges her with her foot.

You roll your eyes. "Whatever. Just hurry it up."

They lead the way to the check out and you follow behind with Rachel.

You're not oblivious to the way Rachel watches you for more than a few steps or the way her upper lip twitches—almost impreceptibly—when you accidentally brush your arm against hers, even if you pretend to be.

.

The tent Santana and Brittany packed is as big as the Taj Mahal.

You tell them as much when you're helping Rachel lug your things out of the car.

"Yeah," Santana says. "That's kind of the whole point. It's gotta hold four people."

She grins happily as she unzips the front flap for Brittany, who tosses a couple of sleeping bags into the tent.

"Why are we camping in October?" Rachel asks you, glancing over at the small lake by your campsite and frowning as she drops the bags she's holding onto the ground. "It's _freezing_."

"Because those two are insane," you tell her, jerking your head at Brittany and Santana who are now kissing each other emphatically.

Rachel has a point, actually.

It can't be warmer than fifty degrees out here and there's only one other tent in the vacinity, one other person crazy enough to be out here, set up around the other side of the lake.

Although, said person also has a bike outside of his tent and is playing a Bob Marley song from a beat-up radio while smoke billows faintly out of the open flap of his tent.

So, there's that.

"But surely they're not so insane as to not know that camping, typically, takes places during the warmer months of the year," Rachel says. "I mean, that's what I've read, at least."

"Read?" you ask, unfolding one of the fold-out chairs and setting it by the fire pit. "Have you never been camping before?"

You can't really see her from the angle you're at—bent over to pick up another folded up chair—but you think she looks embarassed when you say that.

"Well, I…My fathers were never particularly outdoors-y."

You smile a little, even though her voice catches at the mention of her dads.

"Then I'll have to show you just how amazing camping can be," you tell her, though you're not sure where that came from.

It isn't as if you've ever had a good time on one of these trips—even when you'd gone with your family.

Rachel doesn't seem to notice, though, and her face is even more flushed now.

You're standing at your full height and she's right in front of you with her hands on her hips, surveying you instead of the campsite, and she looks sort of like she wants to say a million different things, but what she says is, "I look forward to it."

You want to smile or pull her in despite yourself, despite the boundaries you've been keeping for a reason.

But then you hear a particularly wanton moan come from inside the tent.

"Don't you _dare_ have sex with us standing out here!" you yell in the direction of the tent and you think you can hear Brittany giggle and Santana grumble, but you're focused, instead, on the way Rachel backs away from you—carefully at first, and then she's suddenly as far as she can get without running, standing twenty feet away and getting the rest of the things out of the car.

.

The weeks after she'd shown up on your doorstep had been more than a little awkward.

She still texted you, of course, to ask how your day was, see how you were.

But she suddenly stopped discussing her visiting you or you visiting her.

You were surprised, at the time, by how much it hurt that she suddenly wasn't sure how she was supposed to act around you.

Because you knew the feeling—still felt it, even, after all those years of this unsure dance between the two of you.

It's difficult to not know where you stand with someone.

And it wasn't as if you didn't want her in your life at all, as if you were willing to part with this tentative bridge you'd helped her build between the two of you. Not when things were really getting good.

Sure, there were and are reasons why you'd said, "I _can't,"—_ reasons like Finn and Brody and Sam and all those times Rachel has dived headfirst into someone else in an effort to drown herself.

After seven years of hidden glances and flushed cheeks when she looked at you or brushed her skin against yours on accident, you know that you need to put yourself first for once.

That it can't always be about what Rachel wants.

That you need to make this about you—at least a little.

About you and the way it could break you if Rachel is just mistaking her "love" for relief over having you in her life again.

It's terrifying.

But you still want her around. Still need her to, on occasion, be with you physically so that you can laugh and see her smile in person.

Maybe it's selfish when you know that she thinks she wants more, but how could it be different than when she first reconnected with you over the summer?

She'd seemed surprised that you called two weekends after she'd left—towards the end of September.

"Quinn?" she'd said on the other end. "Are you okay?"

You'd been in your bedroom at the time, staring down at your Peter Pan pillowcases and frowning as you rubbed your forefinger over Wendy's poorly designed face.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just…Would you be free to come see me this weekend? Like tomorrow?" You'd let the question hang in the air for what felt like forever without her answering, though it had probably only been a few seconds. "Or, I mean, I could come to you, too. If you can't get away."

Rachel had audibly sucked in a breath before saying, "No, yeah. I can…I'm free, that is. Just, are you sure? That…"

She hadn't finished, but you'd said, "I'm positive, Rachel."

It had been weird for things to be flipped for once.

You'd wondered if this is how it had been in high school—if she'd, at least on some level, known of your feelings for her back then, if it had made her heart pound like this to hear the hope in your voice when she spoke to you.

Not for the first time, guilt wracked your body, making you shiver with disgust at yourself.

"Okay, well…I can, um…Is tomorrow morning okay? Not too early, obviously, I wouldn't want you to give up a much needed day of rest just so you can come pick me up at the station, but—"

"That sounds great," you'd cut in. "As early as you want. Just let me know, okay?"

Rachel had sighed then, releasing some heavy air that she must have been housing in her chest for the past few moments. "I will. Um, Quinn?"

You'd looked up from Wendy then, eyes fixed distantly on some spot on the floor. "Yeah?"

"Thanks."

You'd frowned a bit. "For what?"

You could practically hear her shrug as she said, "Just…You know."

She'd hung up a few moments later.

At the station the next morning, she'd stood in front of you for a few moments, as if debating the pros and cons of hugging you in greeting, before you just pulled her into your arms as loosely as you could get away with.

"I missed you," you said, perhaps too brazenly.

But Rachel had relaxed into your arms, leaning her face a bit too closely into your neck. "I missed you, too," she'd whispered into your skin.

It was when you hadn't wanted to let her go that you thought that, maybe, you were making a mistake in not just kissing her when you pulled away.

.

The tent has three compartments.

By the time you and Rachel have lugged everything out of the car, and you've used the cigarrette lighter in the car and an adapter plug to blow up your air mattress, Santana and Brittany have already claimed the far left one and have zipped up the partition.

You can hear the occasional rustle of their movements, as well as a handful of whispered phrases and quiet giggles that make you roll your eyes at Rachel, who just looks awkward.

"Would you like the center or the other side?" Rachel asks.

You're already closer to the right side, so you just say, "Um, this corner works," and drop your backpack and sleeping bag to the ground.

Rachel nods and carefully sets her things down, unrolling her sleeping bag and patting it down neatly.

You have to step around her to get your air mattress from where you set it outside the tent, which leads to an awkward brushing past her when you come back inside and she's standing.

"Sorry," you mumble when your shoulder bumps into hers a little.

Rachel doesn't look at you when she says, "That's okay."

You can feel her eyes on you as you set up your air mattress, unrolling your own sleeping bag and setting it down on top of it.

It's obvious that she's thinking about it—your accident four years ago, her own almost-wedding.

You try to bite back the slight nausea it sends rolling through your stomach to your fingertips, but it hardly works and then Rachel is saying, "Is that going to be enough padding? Because I brought some extra blankets and—"

You cut her off, accidentally, when you go to stand and your back pops loudly.

She's staring at you with wide, worried eyes when you turn around.

"I'll be fine," you tell her, giving her what you hope is a reassuring smile. "I promise."

She frowns, but nods. "Okay."

Brittany and Santana have been quiet for a little while, which makes you nervous—especially when you hear another moan.

"Guys, keep it in your pants!" you scold, loudly enough that they can hear you.

You're not positive, but you think you can hear Santana say, " _Bitch_."

"You're the one who dragged us here," you remind her. "The least you can do is actually spend time with us."

On your way out, you aim a light kick at the thin, plastic partition and grin when you hear Santana cursing under her breath.

Rachel follows you out of the tent and it's a few minutes of the two of you awkwardly standing there, bracing yourselves against the cold, before the other two join you.

.

"So," Rachel had said that first weekend she'd visited you after—

Just, _after_.

"Any particularly life-changing experiences happen since the last time I was here?"

She was standing next to you in your apartment, arms crossed, leaned back against the counter as you divied up your take-out order onto plates beside her.

It had been clear from the way her grip around herself became tighter that she understood what a loaded question that was.

She stammered out something about you not having to answer it, or something about it not meaning what it sounded like, but you'd let it go.

"No, not really," you'd answered eagerly, nudging a piece of pepper steak away from the edge of your plate and sucking some of the sauce off of your finger once it was secure.

Rachel's eyes had followed the movement, focusing in on the finger in your mouth before glancing, just as quickly, away.

"So, no new superpowers or abilities?" she'd asked teasingly. "You haven't begun to hear Emma Thompson narrating your life, have you?"

You laughed at her with your mouth partially closed in that way you always have when she's being ridiculous—in the way you do when she reminds you that her ridiculousness is about ninety-percent of why you love her.

"That last one was oddly specific," you'd said and she'd shrugged.

It was only in the silence that there was hesitation—just in those moments after the dialogue quieted down and left you with nothing but your overwhelming thoughts.

Rachel was fighting the same battle, you thought.

Almost like an electric tingling, like your skin vibrating from the intensity of the things left unsaid.

It was bearable for the majority of the weekend.

You'd stayed to neutral topics—classes, movies—and steered clear of anything too risky—the past, feelings, etc.

Things were easy until Saturday evening, when Rachel had insisted on driving you to have dinner and said, "Would you want to go see something?" with a head jerk at a movie theater you'd passed by on the way back to your apartment.

You'd looked at her from the passenger seat and released the white-knuckle hold you had on your knees—remnants of the accident, the nervousness of getting into a car with anyone other than you behind the wheel.

She'd locked eyes with you for a second, but there was no sign that the offer was for anything other than a couple of hours in the dark with an old friend.

So you'd said, "Yeah, okay," and she'd quickly swerved into the turn lane in order to not miss the stop, making you close your eyes tightly and resume your grip on your knees.

You let Rachel pick—something light-hearted and, likely, vapid with a title in second-person and you were barely in the theater in time for the lights to dim.

Maybe you'd expected it to be easier in the dark, mostly-empty theater—like the volume of the movie would drown out your thoughts or keep you from thinking about how _close_ Rachel's arm was on the armrest next to you.

You'd tried, you really had.

You'd tried to focus on the plight of the main character, tried to care when she bumped into the romantic lead on the streets of New York and had the contents of her briefcase sent flying.

You'd tried not to focus on the way Rachel looked in the dark—her silhouette dampened and illuminated by the shifting images on the screen—tried not to think about how close she'd been that night or the way her voice had dropped down when she's said, "I love you, too," just moments after you'd opened the door.

But, when she'd caught you looking at her, Rachel had returned your gaze, staring at you for a moment with her lips slightly parted.

Not for the first time, you let yourself wonder if maybe you were wrong and she wasn't diving into this headfirst like she always used to.

Maybe this is something she really feels and maybe she isn't going to break you.

You hadn't pulled away when you'd felt the tip of her left forefinger brush against the back of your right hand, grazing against the slightly-raised vein there before she added her middle finger, and then all the others, in.

She'd stared at you without looking away, darting her tongue out to wet her lips before flattening her palm against your hand and keeping it there.

And maybe it was wrong of you to turn your hand over, to give her hope in the form of lacing your fingers with hers.

But Rachel hadn't seemed to mind.

The movie ended all too soon and, to this day, you can't recall any part of it other than the beginning.

Rachel had jumped away from you, darting as far to the corner of her seat as she could without spilling over the armrest as soon as the lights were back on.

"Did you like it?" you'd asked quietly when you were in the car and she was turning you in the direction of your apartment complex.

She'd sounded as if she was slightly dazed, a hint of confusion lying under the tone of her words when she said, "Yeah, um," and stopped herself there.

You'd spent that night the way you'd spent the last two nights she'd stayed—alone in your bed with her on the couch.

What happened in the theater changed nothing, did nothing, except, perhaps, make you even more terrified.

.

"He can't be smaller than six feet, at least!"

"Oh, that's ridiculous. It's probably just a larger-than-usual trout or something. Stop it with the histrionics."

"I will not be silenced, Quinn. Not when we may be in danger."

You look over at Rachel, loosening the grip on your fishing pole, and frown.

She's standing by the nearest tree, practically flattened against its trunk as she stares out at the lake with wide eyes.

Santana had packed fishing poles—though the campground was pretty clear about encouraging "catch-and-release"—and, when Rachel mentioned, offhandedly, that she'd never gone, Brittany had been quick to drag the girl to the truck to retrieve them.

Now Santana and Brittany are standing with their lines cast a few feet away—where Brittany, supposedly, sensed the presence of the most fish—while you stand a little ways away from the water's edge trying to talk down Rachel, who claims to have seen "something akin to Nessie" shifting under the dark water's surface.

"We're not in danger, Rachel. I promise." You shift your weight as a familiar pain begins to settle into your left hip and lower back—from the two hour car ride, no doubt.

"But how can you _know_?"

You roll your eyes, though you can't help but be endeared by her antics.

"Well, I suppose the only real way to know for sure would be to attach you to the end of my fishing pole and use you for bait, huh?"

Her eyes grow wide and she shudders. "You wouldn't."

"Rachel, seriously. You're acting as if its some sort of mutant monster, okay? This is not Lake Placid. We're in Ohio. What could it _possibly_ be if not an oversized trout?"

"You don't know, Quinn." She shakes her head, but releases her grip on the tree, shivering a bit in the cold, October wind.

"Then we just won't go swimming. Is that acceptable?"

It's actually ridiculous—it's far too cold to swim—but it seems to calm her a little.

"And you won't fish either?" she prods, earning herself another one of your famous eyerolls.

"I won't fish." You hold up the hand that isn't gripping the fishing pole. "Scout's honor."

Rachel shakes her head, but smiles as she takes a couple of steps towards you and you surprise yourself when you don't step away to maintain distance.

"If that thing attacks us, can you promise that you'll take me home?" she asks and she's joking, of course.

Still, you nod seriously. "As soon as that lake monster begins leaping buildings in a single bound, we're out of here."

Rachel grins at you and looks like she's about to say something when Brittany yells, "Guys, you're too far away! I miss you!"

When you look over at the other two, Brittany is waving you over while Santana ignores the exchange pointedly.

"That's our signal," you say, but Rachel still looks a little wary about getting too close to the water, so you offer her her arm as you start towards Brittany and Santana. "Come on, Superstar. I'll protect you."

She bites her lip at this, but grasps onto the sleeve of your flannel and follows you to the edge of the lake.

She doesn't end up letting go for quite a while, but the real problem is that you don't mind.

.

Rachel hadn't wanted to go home for Fall Break and it had taken Santana about two weeks of constant nagging to finally get her to buy the plane ticket.

You'd understood—though Rachel rarely talks about it, it'd been clear from the fact that she hardly mentions them anymore that her fathers' divorce isn't something she's willing to face just yet.

She'd asked you how you deal with it at first, after your mom kicked your dad out, just a few days before your flight when she was Skyping you after class.

Even though the picture of her through the webcam was a little pixelated, you hadn't missed the way her shoulders deflated after the question.

"Oh, easy," you'd responded. "I was so excited about having two Christmases that I didn't really think about it."

You were joking, trying to lighten the mood because it's been so heavy pretty much since she came back to New York.

She'd given you an admonishing look at that and you'd shrugged. "I don't know, Rachel. I didn't really want to see my dad when I moved back in with my mom. So…I don't know."

She nodded and you'd wished you could hold her hand like you had in the movie theater just weeks before, wished she wasn't in a neighboring state so you'd at least have the option of temporarily forfeiting your friendship for a little touch-y comfort.

"Where are they living now?" you'd asked, because you remember someone—maybe Rachel herself—mentioning that their old house had been sold.

Rachel had sighed—a loud, long, depressing thing. "Um, well…Dad has a condo and Daddy got an apartment closer to his firm."

You'd nodded and tried to remember which dad was the lawyer and which one was the insurance salesman.

"You could just split the time between them evenly," you'd suggested, but she hadn't seemed taken with the idea. "Flip a coin or something to see who goes first. Let them know it was up to chance so that there's no hard feelings."

That had seemed to calm her more.

"Yeah," she'd said. "Okay."

On the flight home, she'd mentioned staying with 'Dad' first and you'd bobbed your head along as she reached around you to grab a magazine from by your seat, wiggling so that she wasn't touching you much.

"That sounds good," you'd said and she seemed more relieved when she said, "Yeah," than she had been a few days prior.

She was in the window seat and you'd stared past her at the blue haze of sky just beyond the three layers of plexiglass.

It was hard to see anything other than the faint, drifting clouds and the delicate contour of her neck where it meets her jaw, but you'd thought it was a great view anyway.

.

When the four of you get too cold to stand outside any longer without a fire, Santana mentions a restaurant you'd passed by near the campgrounds.

The truck is warmer than the outside—though not by much—but the restaurant is a great deal more toasty.

It's a rustic affair with a buffet in the corner that makes Rachel wince when she sees it.

"Oh, can it, Berry," Santana says when she sees Rachel's face.

" _Food_ ," Brittany sighs, drawing the word out.

"Yes, food," Rachel says and you can hear the beginnings of a rant coming. "Germ-infested food that has been sitting out for God-only-knows how long, probably covered with bacteria from the hands of _dozens_ of peop—"

"Berry," Santana cuts in. "I believe I said, and I quote, 'can it.'"

You give her an apologetic look on Santana's behalf, but Rachel doesn't see it.

She ends up ordering from the menu—salad, unsurprisingly—and you beat yourself up, even as you stuff yourself with drumsticks from the buffet, for not thinking enough ahead to plan meals for her.

"Sorry," you say around a bite of a dinner roll.

She smirks at your comically puffed-up cheeks. "For what?" she asks, dipping a baby carrot in a pile of ranch dressing on her plate and popping it into her mouth.

In lieu of answering, you jerk your head between the food on your plate and Santana, who is sneering and chewing angrily as she surveys the nearby patrons.

Rachel smiles and shrugs. "It's fine, I assure you, Quinn. I'm used to people forgetting about my dietary choices." She uses another baby carrot to make swirls of salad dressing on her plate by her pile of salad. "But I appreciate the apology."

She lets her arm rest against yours as you finish your meal in relative silence.

.

After dinner, it's all campfires and smores and other camping cliches.

There aren't any ducks, or birds really, but Brittany uses the entire bag of squirrel food in less than a half hour—something that makes you nervous they'll come back for more and, unsatisfied, attack you for chocolate and marshmallows.

Santana whacks Rachel on the back of the head— _lightly_ , is how she describes it when Quinn gets to her feet with a fierce look in her eye—when she finds out the other woman has never eaten a smore.

"I used to be vegan, Santana," Rachel says, standing up in her fold-out chair enough to scoot it further from Santana and Brittany's side of the fire and closer to Quinn's.

"And?" Santana asks.

Brittany stabs the end of her roaster stick through a marshmallow and practically thrusts it into the flames of the campire, bumping Santana's knee a little too harshly and whispering something that sounds like, "Be _nice_."

"When did you stop being vegan?" you ask Rachel quietly, hoping that Santana and Brittany will just talk amongst themselves and ignore the two of you for now.

Rachel shrugs. "My freshman year," she says. "It was too expensive. I had to switch to just being vegetarian."

You nod. "Makes sense."

It gets quiet then, just the sound of the wind in the trees, the occasional _bloop_ from the water, and the distant sound of _Is This Love?_ filtering across the lake from the other camper's radio.

"Do you wanna try this?"

You pull your properly roasted marhsmallow out of the licks of the fire and press it between two graham crackers and half a Hershey's chocolate bar before holding it out to Rachel.

She eyes it, squinting a bit as she considers her answer and the only thought you can really focus on is how she, somehow, can always make you smile.

You've known her for seven years—even if you've only been allowing her to know you actually like her for less than half of those—but, somehow, she can still find ways to make you smile like this.

Even when the rest of you is heavy from the expectations she unwittingly placed on your shoulders when she'd shown up on your doorstep.

"Hmm," she hums, and then, "Sure."

She takes it from your hand and holds it gingerly before taking too big of a bite and nearly choking.

You reach out, without thinking about it, and lightly slap her on the back.

Even when she's swallowed and said, "Thanks. It's _so_ good. How did I resist chocolate for so long?" you can't bring yourself to pull your hand away from the soft material of her sweater.

But Rachel doesn't really seem to mind.

.

The sun is setting and you're admiring the way the sky has turned a light pink when Rachel says, "I have to go to the bathroom."

Santana and Brittany are leaned against each other in the grass, looking out of the lake.

Brittany clicks her tongue. "Be careful," she warns. "Take a flashlight so you can spot the bears in time to run."

She says it as if you're in the actual woods and not a, relatively, safe campground that was built in a field not too far from a town.

Still, Rachel's eyes get wide and she shivers a little too violently.

"Maybe Quinn should go with you," Santana says without looking at you and you frown. "I'm sure she'll…protect you."

Now she looks at you and you glare at her.

"No, she should sit down. I'll be fine." Even as she says it, Rachel doesn't look convinced.

"It's fine. I'll go with you," you offer, getting to your feet.

"That's okay," Rachel tries, looking guilty. "Don't worry about it."

She must have noticed the slight limp in your gait when you'd been fetching the firewood from the car a couple of hours prior.

It's nothing, really.

Just something you deal with after sitting or standing for too long.

It's not even as if it really hurts all that badly, just that your leg gets a little numb.

But you don't tell her that because you know that, if you do, she'll _make_ you stay behind.

"Come on. Before I change my mind and let the bears eat you."

That seems to shut her up.

She stands and brushes her hands over her jeans, tugging the sleeves of her sweater over her palms as she steps around the her chair.

"Text us when you get there so we know you haven't been eaten," Santana teases, smirking at you.

You, somehow, resist the urge to flip her off as you lead the way towards the bathroom.

There are street lamps every fifteen or so feet on the path towards the bathroom, so it's not hard to find and you stand outside while Rachel goes in, leaning against the cool, brick wall and looking up at where the moon is hanging in the sky.

It's a bit darker when Rachel comes out and lets you take your turn, and darker still by the time you join her again.

She shivers as you start down the dirt path again, looking up at the sky in wonder.

"I forgot how many stars there are," she says.

"How is it possible to forget your own kin?"

She smiles at you just as you duck under the low branches of a tree by the path and she's so busy watching you that she trips a little on a stick.

"Woah there," you say, catching her with a hand on her elbow.

She steadies herself and mumbles, "Thanks," as you reluctantly release her arm.

"It's just hard to see them all in New York," she continues after a moment, looking back up at the sky briefly. "Or at all."

She stops walking just as you can see your tent and fire, so you stop too, looking over at her.

"Look, Quinn," Rachel says, and she nods up at the sky.

You look up, then, at the swirling masses of twinkling lights peppered against the blackish purple sky and smile a bit, imagining each and every one as a distant, intergalactic Rachel.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch her head drop back down and then you feel the prickle of her gaze on the back of your neck, making the hairs on your arms stand on end underneath your flannel.

"It really is beautiful," you tell her and you can see her nod.

"Yeah," she says.

It's a bit cliché that she's still looking at you after that—that she wasn't looking at the sky when she said it—but you're starting to think that you'll take what you can get.

.

You'd gone to visit her in New York two weekends after her second overnight stay with you.

It hadn't been planned, but it hadn't been nearly as dramatic as any of her spontaneous visits.

Kurt and Blaine had welcomed you into their apartment, saying something about dinner and Rachel being back from her ballet class soon.

You'd sat on the couch and made small talk with Blaine to the faint sound of a _Friends_ rerun playing on the TV and when he'd said, "I'm really glad you and Rachel are spending more time together," you'd just nodded.

It was clear that neither of them knew about her confession.

You wondered why that was—if it was because she was too afraid to tell someone else about the evolution of her feelings for you, or something else.

You hadn't had time to come up with various scenarios, though, because Rachel came in the door just moments later.

She'd been wearing sweats and her hair was still up in a bun, though it was messier, perhaps, than it had been during her class.

As always, you'd been breathless at the sight of her and she'd clearly returned the feeling when she saw you sitting there.

"Quinn?" she'd whispered, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "I wasn't expecting you."

With anyone else, it might have sounded a little harsh, but she'd just sounded pleased.

Confused, maybe. But pleased.

"Just wanted to surprise you," you'd said, perhaps too intimately.

Blaine had ducked out of the room then.

"You certainly accomplished that."

Rachel smiled and you'd remembered her clammy hand in yours in the theater, the way she'd draped herself on your couch as she slept two weeks ago.

"Let me go change and then—"

"Please don't," you'd cut her off and you knew that you were seriously toeing the line, then. "You look great."

She'd flushed and looked away bashfully. "I hardly think that's true."

You'd wanted to say something about her _always_ looking great, but weren't able to manage it.

Instead, you'd said, "Really, Rachel."

It set a precedent for the evening, though, because somehow, after dinner, you found yourself tangled up with her on the couch watching _The Office_.

You were beating yourself up for letting this happen—for caving and, perhaps also, leading her on with promises of something you're too afraid to give her—when you realized that she was falling asleep.

Kurt and Blaine were already in bed and the room was dark.

There was a spare pillow from her bedroom on your side of the couch—brought out with a set of sheets by Kurt to make the couch more comfortable—but you knew that, in order for you to sleep, you'd have to wake her up and move her.

Her backpack was on the floor by the couch, unzipped and spilling out the partial contents of one of her folders. Your own bag was on the other side, opened briefly a few hours prior when you'd switched out of your contacts to your glasses because the darkness of the room in contrast to the TV was burning your eyes.

You remembered the way Rachel had adjusted them, gently, and said, "I quite like this look on you, Miss Fabray," just as she snuggled a bit closer to you.

Her sock-clad feet were propped up on your ankles, which were pressed into the coffee table and she had a purple blanket draped around her shoulders.

You watched Jim approach Pam, who was standing ankle-deep in the lake, and you weren't really sure why it made you so sad that it took them so long to find each other when both of them—and everyone else, too, for the most part—knew how they felt for one another.

Looking back, you think it must have just been an overwhelming moment of weakness—the simple matter of _being_ with Rachel in such an everyday way, the way you'd wanted to be for so long, with your things tossed together around the room by the scramble of life—that led to you making the decision not to to wake her.

Whatever it was, you'd woken up the next morning with her still wrapped around you on the couch and you'd hardly wanted to unwind yourself from around her, even once she was awake.

.

Santana and Brittany are nowhere to be seen when you reach the campsite.

You frown, squinting in the darkness to see where they might have gone to, but have no luck finding them.

That is, until Rachel grabs your forearm tightly and says, "Oh, dear God, no."

"What?" you ask, looking at her worriedly, but then you hear it, too, so you don't need her to answer.

From inside the tent, just a few feet to your right, you can hear noises.

Noises that sound an awful lot like—

" _And_ we're going for a walk now," you say, grabbing Rachel's hand in yours and dragging her away from the tent and into the darkness.

As you pass by your chair, you grab the flashlight you tucked into the cup holder and then speed up your steps in order to escape more quickly, flipping it on.

"They're shameless!" Rachel huffs out angrily when you're a good distance down the path, just a short ways away from a spattering of trees on the outskirts of the lake.

"You say that like it's brand-new information."

You're still holding her hand and you let go then, shifting a bit to the left so that you're not walking as close.

"How long did they think we'd be gone?" Rachel asks. "Surely not long enough for them to finish… _that_!"

"That's the fun part, Rach—they don't care."

"I mean, how would they feel if they returned from the facilities to the sounds of us…"

She trails off and when you look at her—the part of her face you can see from the flickering band of light from your flashlight—she's blushing.

That's all you manage to see before the flashlight flickers out.

"Shit," you whisper, banging the end of it against the heel of your palm. "I _just_ put new batteries in this before I left home this morning."

You feel Rachel's fingers dig into your shirt at the waist.

"Quinn," she whispers.

After a few more bangs, it's clear that the flashlight won't be turning back on and, just, how perfect is that?

You stick it into the pocket of your shirt with a grumble, letting Rachel continue to hold onto you as your eyes adjust to the darkness.

When you can finally see her, you almost wish you weren't able to, because she's so much closer than you thought she was.

You can feel her breath on your face as she looks at you, clearly afraid.

A twig snaps behind you and she jumps, moving impossibly closer.

"Sorry," she whispers, trying to pull away, but you keep her there with a hand on her waist and this is probably a bad idea.

You should back up, get away, before this gets out of hand.

To calm the pounding of your heart, the sweating of your palms, you count down from ten, trying to list the reasons why you'd told her no in the first place all those weeks ago.

 _Ten_.

She so willingly forgives even the people who tormented her for years.

 _Nine_.

How eager she was to jump back into Finn's arms every time they broke up.

 _Eight_.

The way she'd looked at Jesse St. James, even after he'd egged her in the parking lot.

 _Seven._

The way she'd practically called Puck your soulmate when you'd given her the Metro North pass.

 _Six._

Her bi-weekly emails getting shorter and shorter freshman year.

 _Five._

Finn, Finn, Finn.

 _Four._

The way her voice had sounded on the phone last year when she'd said, "I… _We_ could really use your help."

 _Three._

How many times she left you crying in the bathroom between classes, or in your bedroom, or dorm room without ever knowing she'd done it.

 _Two._

The way your world had just _stopped_ when you'd laid it all on the line in the bridal shop senior year and she'd just let you leave.

 _One._

But, _fuck_ , you can't think of another one, can't think of why you're pushing this girl away when all you've ever wanted to do was pull her into you and never let her go.

Why you're doing this when it was clear from the words she'd said, from the way she'd set her jaw when you'd turned her down, from the way she's getting closer now, that she's just as scared as you are.

"Hey," Rachel whispers and you wonder if she can hear it—your pulse as it quickens.

Her fingers loosen in your shirt, but she doesn't remove them and you keep your hand on her hip.

"Hey," you return and then her lips are closer, but not quite where you want them.

Still, you're not going to complain when they're on your cheek like that, trailing down your jaw to your neck.

You bring your hands up and grip her shoulders, tugging her closer.

She brings her mouth up and presses her lips to yours then and it's everything you never thought you'd have.

Your legs would probably give out if you weren't being leaned against a tree—though you're not exactly sure when _that_ happened.

You can feel her fingers as they weave into your hair, pulling you forward.

You drift your own hands down to her waist, slipping your fingers into her empty belt loops as she slips a thigh between your legs and— _oh._

Rachel bites your bottom lip a little too harshly and you groan a bit into her mouth as she presses her body further into yours.

The sound seems to knock some sense into her, though, because suddenly she's pulling herself away from you and the breeze hits you all at once, sucking the warmth from your body.

She's too far away for you to really make it out in the dark, but you think you can see her shoulders trembling a bit as she cries.

She doesn't say anything, but you're suddenly filled with such fear that you were right—that she does regret this and one kiss from you was all it took to make her realize she never actually wanted you in the first place.

You stand up and straighten your shirt, looking away.

"I'm so sorry," she says quietly and your stomach is at your feet.

If you had a flashlight with working batteries, you're certain you could find it, pulsating there in the dirt.

"For what?" you ask, too harshly.

"I-I…" She takes a step forward and sniffs loudly. "I just…You didn't want—and I…"

It's not really a statement, but you get the gist of it.

She thinks that she just forced herself on you.

"You didn't…I…" You shake your head and scratch your left elbow absently through your sleeve. You almost add in something about having wanted it too, but you're not sure how.

She sniffs loudly. "You…I didn't…?"

"No," you tell her. "You didn't."

"Oh." Another sniff.

You reach out to touch her, drawing her into the crook of your arm and letting her press her face into the collar of your shirt and cry it out.

"Wanna get back?" you whisper into her hair when she's stopped crying. "They're probably done by now."

She nods into you and then wipes her eyes when she pulls away. "Yeah," she whispers. "Lead the way."

You lead her again, but, this time, you keep your hands to yourself.

.

Brittany and Santana finally emerge about twenty minutes after you return, as you and Rachel are sitting quietly by the fire and roasting more marshmallows that you have no intention of eating.

"Ah," you say as they take a seat across from you, each looking bedraggled. "You're alive."

"Did you think we died?" Brittany asks seriously and you shrug at her.

"You're one to talk," Santana returns quickly, darting her eyes between you and Rachel. "What about you two? Anything to write home about? You know…sex-wise."

It's possible that Rachel's posture stiffens at this, but you're not looking at her, so you don't know.

"Yep, sure, Santana." You roll your eyes. "We started having sex and then got bored halfway through and decided roasting marshmallows was a more entertaining activity."

Santana actually laughs at this and Brittany does too, when she realizes that it's a joke.

Rachel doesn't, but that's okay.

.

It was probably a good thing to just let Santana and Brittany go at it earlier, because they're out like lights when it comes time to sleep.

They keep their partition up, but you leave the one between your side and Rachel's down for reasons you're not really sure about.

Your air matress is squeaky.

And loud.

You shift around for a few seconds—as long as you can bear of the sound—before you just resign yourself to being uncomfortable for the night.

"Are you asleep?"

It comes after a while—you're not sure how long, exactly.

Just a quiet whisper from Rachel a couple of feet away.

"No," you whisper back. "Are you?"

You think you can hear her stifle a laugh.

"Clearly." A pause. "Is it always this eerie at night? You know, in the wilderness."

"This is hardly the wilderness, Rachel. There's like three DQ's about ten minutes away."

She sighs. "Still…They were kidding about the bears, right?"

You turn your head and wince at the resounding squeak of the rubber mattress, looking over at the dark, distant blob that is Rachel.

"Yes, Rachel. I'm fairly certain that there are no bears in Amish country."

"Fairly certain isn't very certain, Quinn."

You exhale and tug your sleeping bag as close to your chin as you can manage.

"We're not going to go outside tomorrow morning and find a bloody hook imbedded in the tent, right?"

"What are you talking about?" you ask, giving her a horrified look even though she can't see you.

"Like…the legend of the hook-handed man, you know?"

That sounds vaguely familiar but you're not sure why.

"He terrorizes teens at Lover's Lane?"

Oh, that's why it sounds familiar.

You think you can recall your sister saying something about that when you were a kid, maybe. Or, reading it somewhere.

"But we're not two teens making out, Rachel," you tell her, and almost regret saying it once you have. "I think we'll be fine."

"Not with those two hormonal sour-sacks, we won't."

You have to laugh at that.

Who says "sour sacks"?

"I do, Quinn," Rachel says when you ask.

"If it'll make you feel better, come closer."

She hesitates for a minute, but then you can hear her shuffling over as best as she can without removing herself from her sleeping bag.

"Better?" you ask when she's practically pressed into the edge of your mattress.

You think you can see her shrug.

"I'll protect you, Rachel. A scout never goes back on her word."

"You were never a girl scout," she says. "Nor were you a boy scout."

You frown. "Fair enough. But I'll still protect you."

Something presses into your mattress and then inches up to the edge of your sleeping bag.

It's only when you feel cool fingers brush against your neck that you realize it's Rachel's hand.

"Even from the Lake Monster?" she asks.

You smile and resist the urge to press yourself closer to her fingers when she pulls them away a bit. "Even from the Lake Monster."

.

When you wake up the next morning, Rachel is awake by your bedside and looking at you.

She blushes when she notices your gaze and quickly looks away.

"What?" you ask, sitting up and attempting to pat down your hair. "I look awful, don't I?"

Rachel shakes her head and bites her lip. "No, Quinn, you look…You look…I just sort of imagined what you'd look like when you wake up and you're so…"

She doesn't finish, but you're the one blushing now.

The moment is ruined a moment later by Santana, who crashes the party with a bag of Hostess donuts and white-powdered fingers and lips saying, "Get up, lovebirds. Check-out is in an hour."

So you get up—but not without an eye roll sent to Rachel, who laughs—and then it's all taking down the tent and packing up for the next forty-five minutes.

It's cold and windier than yesterday, so you end up asking Brittany if she has a sweater or something you could borrow—she _does_ , thank God—and it's a little baggy around your wrists.

Rachel frowns at you when she sees the grey MIT crewneck. "Isn't that Brittany's?" she asks, tucking her duffel bag into the bed of the truck.

"Yeah," you say, twisting a bit to relieve some of the pressure in your lower back—the mattress hadn't helped much last night. "I didn't pack enough warm stuff because Santana sort of sprung this on us. And someone got snot and tears all over my only flannel."

You say it as a joke, but it takes a moment for Rachel to smile back.

.

Rachel is the first one Santana drops off, leaving her in the parking lot of a nice-enough-looking apartment complex.

"I'll see you guys on Sunday," she says when she's half out the door, locking eyes with you meaningfully.

Something twists in your chest and you're sad to watch her go, but you're even sadder that you let her leave.

"So, did it work?" Santana asks when you're almost to your house.

"Did what work?" you ask absently, not really caring to hear the answer.

"The camping trip. Did you and Rachel finally do the horizontal bop?"

If you were driving, you would have swerved off the road, but you're not driving, so your mouth just hangs open a little.

Brittany is turned in her seat, giving you a curious look that seems to state that, though she's not one to push, she certainly wants to know the answer as well.

"Rachel…We…That…"

Your throat is tight and it's hot in this car.

Yeah, it's cold outside, but why overcompensate by making the car the approximate temperature of Hell?

You tug the collar of Brittany's crewneck away from your neck.

"It's just a question, Q. Should I take that as a 'yes'?"

"You should take that as a 'shut the hell up'."

Her eyes lock with yours in the rearview mirror, but only briefly.

"Ouch, my feelings," she says in monotone.

"What kind of question even is that?" you fire out, expelling the words from your mouth in a gust of huffy air. "Why would you even—Whatever, Santana."

You look away from Brittany pointedly, turning your gaze to the passing buildings outside the window.

"Yikes. I struck a nerve." She pauses at a stoplight, flicking on her blinker. "I was just asking. I mean, that was the whole point of the trip."

You open your mouth, possibly to ask what the _fuck_ she means, but Brittany cuts in.

"Don't be mad, Q. We just knew something was going on with you two and wanted you to spend time together. Santana wants you guys to be happy. I do, too."

That seems hard to believe, what with the way Santana is sneering as she turns the car down your street.

"This wasn't about me missing your wedding at all, was it?"

What a dumb question.

If you were able to focus on anything other than your two oldest friends apparently scheming about your personal life, you might whack yourself, appropriately, in the forehead.

Santana scoffs. "'Course not," she says. "We understood that, didn't we, B?"

Brittany nods.

"I mean, it's no secret that you and the woodland fairy don't mix with weddings well. No biggie."

She pauses as she pulls into your driveway.

Once she's parked, she turns around and says, "We just wanted you to work out whatever it was that was going on between you and Rachel, okay? Clearly you didn't, or you'd be grinning too much to care about our sneaky scheming."

She has a point.

And maybe things _started_ to get worked out with Rachel but…

But things are so screwed up right now.

"Is that why you guys disappeared more than once? So we'd be alone?"

Santana nods and you press your lips together angrily.

"Your flashlight didn't happen to die, did it?" Brittany asks, looking sheepish and you just give her a disbelieving look. "That was us, too." She drops her head, looking ashamed.

"Seriously?" you demand. "How did you even know to do that?"

Santana shrugs. "On the off chance you guys wandered off for a nighttime stroll." She locks eyes with Brittany before adding in a, "Wanky."

"Why camping?" you ask after a few silent moments.

"Oh, that was my idea," Brittany says, and you're not surprised. "Like that rule, you know?"

You frown. "What rule?"

"She means the one about leaving the campsite better than you found it," Santana explains, shaking her head a bit.

When you still look confused, she adds, "Just…Rachel was okay until like a month ago. And then whatever happened with you two happened and now she's not. Britt's theory was that camping would inspire you to clean up whatever mess you made."

You almost want to yell at them, even though it's clear that their hearts were in the right place.

You want to remind them that Rachel hurt you first.

But maybe that's not what this is about.

Maybe it's not about who hurt who first or the most recently.

It's not about balancing the score anymore.

They're looking at you like they're expecting something—they probably are—so you just open the door and shove your way out.

"Whatever," you tell them, grabbing your bag from the back of the truck before starting for your front door.

"Quinn!" Brittany calls, sounding sad, but the door is shut so quickly behind you that you're not sure if she says anything else or not.

.

Your mother asks how it was over dinner that night and her words are more sound than you can take.

You feel stretched thin, tired.

"I hate camping," you tell her, stabbing your fork into your food.

Rachel's voice is in your head, pumping through your veins, making you shiver like you're back out in the middle of nowhere.

"I know you do, darling." She sips a glass of water that's sitting on the table by her plate. "How was…" She pauses and you know that she's about to ask after Rachel, but she says, "Santana and Brittany?"

You might not have noticed, if it weren't for the incorrect grammar.

Rachel, sitting across from you in the park by your apartment saying _I thought I'd…be the one to try this time._

"They're fine."

 _I missed you, too, Quinn._

"That's good. I'm sure it was nice to spend time with them, though I can't understand _why_ you had to drive so far away when there are more than a few acceptable campgrounds much closer."

She shakes her head.

You nod.

"Brittany likes Amish country. There's a bakery by the campgrounds she nearly emptied when we left this morning," you explain, though now you're thinking it's because they wanted you as far out of your element as they could get you in an effort to get you to break down to Rachel quicker.

 _So, why didn't Noah come to help you move with the rest of us? Was he unable to get away?_

You finger the edge of the tablecloth and try to slow your breathing.

 _I just sort of imagined what you'd look like when you wake up and you're so…_

"Quinnie? Are you feeling okay?"

You think of Rachel, sitting beside her father and discussing everything but the divorce across town.

You think of Rachel sleeping next to you and Rachel pressing you back into the tree last night.

You think of Rachel grinning with a mouth full of marshmallows and how heavy and hot her breath had been on your neck just an hour before she'd dumped half the bag of them into her mouth.

"Yeah, Mom. Just tired."

You think of the way her expression had collapsed in on itself—like a dying star, almost—when you'd turned her away instead of drawing her in and the way she'd gritted her teeth before responding.

You think of how you didn't say it back like you should have—didn't tell her that you love her so that everyone within earshot would know.

It doesn't matter that you do—that she's all you've wanted, ever maybe.

It doesn't matter because you turned her down in the pretense of needing to put yourself first, in the fear that she didn't mean a word of it.

But you want her.

God help you, you want her more than anything.

"Are you sure, honey?"

Your mom looks even more worried now so you send her a smile and take a big bite of your meatloaf to overcompensate for the sinking in your gut.

.

You spend the rest of break sitting around the house—with your mom, when she's home from work.

You're nauseated, sick, for most of it, but you don't text Rachel or answer any of Brittany or Santana's calls.

You're too busy trying to figure out the precise moment where everything went wrong.

When Rachel left you standing in your doorway, maybe and you'd only dropped down and cried when the door was shut firmly behind her.

Or when she'd shown back up in the first place, begging for friendship—for a scrap of _anything_ you had to give.

Or maybe you're being too kind.

It's possible that everything started down this slope the moment you first saw her—first day, freshman year, standing at her locker in a bright, yellow shirt and plaid skirt.

You'd admired her from behind for a moment—her hair looked _soft_ , though, at the time, you'd passed it off as nothing but a brief lapse in sanity—and when she'd turned to meet your inquisitive gaze across the hall, beaming at you, you'd felt the shift it caused.

After that, she was always there—right there—whenever you started to doubt yourself, whenever she doubted herself.

Like some sort of telepathic connection you had, some warning signal only the two of you could hear.

You spend three days breathing in the silence that threatens to suffocate you, staring at an empty inbox on your phone, but you don't let yourself stop to consider what it all means.

.

On Sunday, your mom drives you to the airport.

Brittany and Santana catch a ride with you, but they know enough to sit silently in the back.

At the airport, Rachel looks the same as she always does, though you're not positive why you thought she may look different.

No words are said between the two of you.

Only one of her dads drops her off—the one with the glasses.

You watch them hug each other goodbye as your own mother's arms wrap around your shoulders.

"Let me know when you land, okay?" she whispers before pulling away.

You nod, pulling your eyes away from Rachel before she can catch you.

"Alright."

.

"Would it be okay if I came back to your apartment for a little bit?"

You find the courage to speak just as you're leaving the airport.

Santana is hailing a cab for you and Brittany is holding their luggage, glancing back at you and Rachel as you follow her to the curb.

She glances at you, looking scared, but then gives you a smile. "Of course."

She sounds chipper enough, but her eyes are a bit more wide than they usually are.

"Get a move on!" You hear Santana call and she's helping Brittany into a taxi.

You wave her off, but you're in the cab, squeezed next to Rachel a moment later.

On the way to Santana and Brittany's building, you tell yourself that it's just because the car is overcrowded—and not because you're touching Rachel from knee to shoulder because of how tight it is—that's causing you to feel like you have a fever.

"You better visit soon," Santana tells you when she hugs you outside the cab.

"Yes, please, Quinn." Brittany jumps into the hug too, squeezing you tighter than Santana is, which is astounding.

"I will, guys," you tell them. "Even if you do suck terribly at playing matchmaker."

Santana punches your shoulder lightly when she pulls away. "I'll remind you that you said that when you've been properly laid, Fabray."

You blush at this, but there's no time to retaliate, because they're already waving through the doors of the lobby.

.

Kurt and Blaine aren't home when you get to Rachel's apartment, which is just perfect.

They're probably working—the reason why they couldn't join you camping, after all—but it doesn't matter because, even though it was your idea, you aren't expecting to be alone with Rachel like this so suddenly.

"Is everything okay?" Rachel asks when the door is closed and locked, dropping her bag to the floor.

You set your own bag on the couch and shrug. "Um, yeah, I just…I wanted to…We should talk, don't you…don't you think?"

Rachel stops at this.

Literally freezes in place.

And then she starts twisting her hands together.

"Um," she says. "Yeah, okay."

There's silence then.

Just a distinct lack of sound, draping itself around your shoulders like a heavy blanket.

You want to say a lot of things—deeply apologetic things, things that might be able to erase any damage you'd caused when she turned away last month, when you ruined it all by trying to protect yourself from something you didn't need protecting from.

None of them come, though.

Not readily.

All you can manage is, "I was wrong, I think…That is…I know I was wrong now."

"What do you mean?" Rachel asks it in a voice that's afraid of sounding hopeful.

"When I said…I was just scared, Rachel…"

You're surprised that your voice sounds as steady as it does.

Rachel takes a tentative step forward.

"I was just…I was scared that you would hurt me again or that I would hurt you or…I don't know. That you were wrong about…about loving me or-or something. If that makes sense."

Rachel looks like she may cry and you wonder how you doubted this—why you doubted it up until that moment after she stopped kissing you, when she'd been just as terrified of losing you, of doing something wrong, as you were.

"It…It makes sense, I think." Her arm comes up to wrap around her center, but she doesn't look away. "I…I'm sorry I hurt you, Quinn…I didn't mean to or-or want to. I didn't _know_. And—"

"I know," you say, cutting her off and it's you who steps forward now. "It doesn't matter. It's over now and I know that you regret it, even if it wasn't really your fault. I shouldn't have blamed you for any of that. It wasn't your fault-you didn't know how I felt because I never told you. Holding that over your head was...I was wrong, Rachel. I was…being stupid. I'm so, _so_ sorry."

She shakes her head. "You weren't being stupid. Overly cautious, maybe. But not stupid."

You smile. You can't help it.

And then her hand is on yours, fingers grazing over your palm, fingertips.

As always, your heart beats like a hummingbird when her skin meets yours—so hard, you're almost afraid you won't make it out alive and are surprised when you do.

"You know me," you say, still smiling. "I like shutting people out."

"I've noticed."

Rachel is smirking and you love the sound of her—the low chuckle in the back of her throat, that little hum she makes after as you squeeze her hand.

"You're sure, right?" she whispers after a second and a bit of her smile dims. "Because…Quinn…I think that I've wanted this for…for maybe as long as I've known you. I realized it sometime last month and I thought I was going to go crazy from not being able to be with you the way I wanted… _want._ I don't know if I…"

It's an interesting swap, to say the least.

Because you know the feeling—you felt it for _years_ , after all.

But it's strange to think that you put Rachel through a similar longing, similar pain.

It makes you hurt somewhere deep, near your heart.

Instead of answering, you lean down and kiss her and, somehow, it's better than you remember it being last night—maybe because you're less scared now.

You kiss her slow and heavy and she rocks forward to get closer, sighing into your mouth when you peek your tongue out to ask for entrance.

Her hands pull at you hungrily, on your flannel—recently washed—and then your hips.

It would hurt, her anxious hands, but you're so focused on the way she's making your legs and arms and head tingle that you hardly notice.

The tingling turns into a deep ache, an almost pain, in that same deep place by your heart and then it's everywhere when she whispers, "I love you," against your lips.

You say it back—finally, _finally_ , let yourself—because loving Rachel has always been your favorite form of surrender.

You finally pull away after a few moments and her mouth is pink and breathless from love and declarations of it.

"I love you," you repeat, because now that the floodgates are open it's almost like you can't stop yourself.

"I know you do," she jokes and she's still so close that you can smell her perfume as it seeps into your clothes. "I was just waiting for you to remember."

.

Rachel says, "Why do you have to go?" periodically for a few hours, even when you're in the cab on the way to the train station.

It doesn't change the fact that you have classes tomorrow, but it does make you feel terrible for caring enough to not skip them.

You hold her hand while you wait in the station and it's more than enough—so much more and you wonder how long it will take for you to get used to the fact that you can do this now.

She wants you to do this.

She pouts when your train pulls in, even though you're saying things like, "One of us will visit soon, okay? This weekend, even."

It doesn't seem to help much and you hate that you didn't just take a page out of her book and show up at her dad's apartment when you were still in Lima—declared your love for her, as well as your own stupidity, days before so that you could have spent the rest of break just _being_ with her.

"Okay," she resigns, finally. "Five days. We can do it."

She must see the look you get when she says it—the way your heart drops must be evident.

Five days is enough time for her to change her mind.

But she squeezes your hand and kisses your knuckles and you feel silly for being afraid when you've just spent three hours kissing this girl—on the couch, against the wall of her bedroom, against her dresser, on her bed.

This girl who'd said, "I love you," and every chance she'd gotten since you'd said it back and meant it, visibly.

But you suppose this is how it is, how it will be.

Why it took you so damn long to get it together and just let yourself be happy for once.

This is how it is—how it has to be—when you've loved someone you spent years and years losing bit by bit and then had to remind yourself how to love them again.

The idea of being away from her reminds you that you can lose her, have lost her, actually. Might again.

You hate the idea of spending even five days away from her, needy as it sounds—hate that you're still struggling to reconcile the past with the present, the way she used to always tear you apart for the way she's trying to help you rebuild.

"Five days," you whisper and she kisses you before you have to turn away and board the train.

She waves from the platform when you're seated, somehow finding your window and you have to force yourself to look away when the train starts moving.

It hurts.

But that's supposed to happen.

That's what happens when you leave someone you love.

You brush your fingertips across your lips, absently playing with the torn knee of your jeans.

It doesn't really hit you until you're in your car, parked in the parking lot of the train station, two hours later.

And then it does and you're filled with that heavy emptiness that accompanies being apart from someone rather than really being alone.

It's not something you've really let yourself feel before.

Your phone buzzes when you're at a stoplight just a block or two away from your apartment.

It's rested in the passenger seat and it makes you feel sick—physically—when you think about checking it because of what happened last time you'd done exactly that.

But the light is red and the opposing one is still green, so, maybe, you have time.

You press the circular button at the bottom to light it up instead of holding it—the much safer option—and your stomach rolls with a sense of déjà vu when you see Rachel's name.

You have to calm yourself before you lean over enough to read it, but then you do.

And she doesn't ask where you are in all caps because she knows, probably.

Knows that you're somewhere far for now—that you'll be closer soon, in just a few days.

Instead it says, _I may have already bought my ticket to come see you this Friday. Is it weird that I miss you already?_

You smile and bite your lip, already planning out your response.

You take in a deep breath and the light turns green just as you let it out slowly.

…

 **a/n:**

title from Richard Siken's "Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out."

references to-Lake Placid, The Office ("The Job" in season three), Friends, Superman, Bob Marley's "Is This Love?", Stranger than Fiction, etc.

sorry if i forgot something.

and i won't beg—begging is lame—but, if you have the time or the inclination, be sure to tell me what you think.


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